Pleasantries
by Aliathe
Summary: If you're looking for 'pleasant', Death is always very pleasant and agreeable. It's Life who's the brutal one. [Death!Harry] [Life!Tom] [God!AU] [HPxTR] [Drabbles]
1. spiels and slips

**Summary:**

 _If you're looking for 'pleasant', Death is always very pleasant and agreeable. It's Life who's the brutal one. [Death!Harry] [Life!Tom] [God!AU] [HPxTR] [Drabbles]_

 **Disclaimer:**

 _I don't own Harry Potter._

* * *

"Welcome, newly deceased. As you may or may not be aware of, you are currently dead, and in a soul form. Yes, dead. Yes, soul. And yes, I'm Death, destroyer of worlds and all that, although I much prefer to devour a nice cup of tea now and then. If you have experienced temporary amnesia, and-slash-or believe me to be a crazy kidnapper, then kindly direct your attention to the Void around you, the dying star being contained in the above lamp, and the various Magical Archways of Destined Fates ( _we-are-not-held-liable-for-any-physical-soulful-emotional-or-mental-injury-incurred-by-jumping-randomly-into-one-of-the-obviously-mystical-portals_ )."

Death, who was particularly fond of the human pseudonym 'Harry Potter,' paused in the middle of his standard introductory spiel, and bent down slightly to hear better.

The soul, a faint silvery blob of luminescent gas, wavered around the edges before firming up a bit, bobbing forward to brush against Death's ear.

Anyone not of divine or demonic nature would find it impossible to decipher the shivery suggestion of a whisper that was sighed out.

Even the more experienced and skillful gods ('gods' being the general term for those above a certain power range) would find trying to grasp the slippery little things an exercise of determination and patience.

As it was, he ('Harry Potter' is a human name, yes, but one mostly intended for males; thus, Death skipped over the gender-confusion and identity-shifting fuss common of gods, by deciding on a male form as his go-to image, helped along by the human perception of 'Death' as a _masculine_ cowled scythe-bearer, not, for whatever inexplicable human reason, as a feminine one) was Death.

There was nobody more well-versed in the tricky, gentle art of dealing with souls than he.

"Ah, I see," he nodded, understanding dawning upon him. "My apologies, of course, but you must know how busy we've been lately. Terribly tired. I'd have noticed sooner otherwise. I'm backlogged on a few decades of reincarnation-processing paperwork! Still, better than the millennia-worth of paperwork some of my coworkers ignore, even if the automated reincarnation-machine seems to have an odd glitch about skipping the memory-wipe of around 1 in 1000 teenage girls. Really rather strange... I mean, the imps _say_ they're working on it... oh, dear, I'm rambling again. So sorry. Anyway, I'll just fish out a spare form... I keep some in a dimensional pocket just for this occurrence... and... okay... please sign here, and here, and here."

The soul floated over the proffered translucent sheet of paper-like material, somehow managing to imprint a distinctly feline pawprint onto the highlighted lines.

"All seems to be in order, then. Right, we've moved doors again, so the Gateway is the third one on your left, go through that hallway, can't miss it, don't be shy of asking for help! The Furies are always manning the information desks. Be careful, now, Slasher; you've burned through 8 lives already, this one's your last one before the grand afterlife! Don't forget to mind your karma counts!" Death called cheerfully after the soul drifting towards the indicated hallway, who gave the impression of turning around and nodding, brushing against a pillar of the door-arch to produce another soul-whisper, one that equaled to a goodbye in 'meowese.'

.

He sighed, a content sigh, and spun around once before dropping bonelessly into a large cushy armchair that had just been materialized.

Death never really got tired of being Death, contrary to popular belief.

You meet someone new very often, you get to participate in a sacred and super-important process of the universe, you have all these nice perks.

It's a good, respectable job, being Death.

Not like he knows how to be anything else...

A woman's face poked through the Magical Archway of Destined Fates #501292, also known as the Clerical Bureau's Door of Sternly-Worded Reprimands and Strongly-Worded Requests.

Her hair, oddly feathery, fluttered and framed her aquiline features in various shades of mottled brown and suspiciously rusty-red fringes, as she monotoned, "Sir, The One Who Causes Too Much Paperwork has arrived. He is... waiting to see you, Sir. My sisters and I would be much obliged if you could go to the Lobby of Life and Un-Life and Death and Un-Death to remove him before he causes even more paperwork."

There was the faintest hint of a threat in the last sentence, though of course the Fury, ever cool-headed and devotedly-loyal, would never _dream_ of threatening her much-respected boss whom she was quite fond of.

Um.

Never.

( _... totally would._ )

With a pained grimace, Death ran a pallid hand through his neatened hair, which automatically sprang into chaotic curls as he shifted to the more human-like form he favored when not 'on the job'.

At the same time, his fingers shrank away their skeletal tips, his skin grew marginally healthier, and there was an audible firecracker-noise as his bone structure rearranged itself.

He could always shift instantaneously, of course, but there was something much more... _pleasant_ about getting something done hands-on.

(Well, magic-on, anyway.)

Something which 'The One Who Causes Too Much Paperwork' has never seen the point of, actually.

' _And yet another reason why he pisses me off,_ ' Death mentally scowled, already on his feet and striding towards the portal the woman was in, resigned to having to sacrifice his usual amiable mood in order to save the collective sanity of his employees.

"Thanks for telling me, Euryale, I'm on it," he informed the Fury, who obediently ducked her head back into the whirlpool-eque depths of the portal to make way.

' _The things I do for the greater good,_ ' Harry Potter sighed once more, before closing his eyes, thinking of the Lobby, sucking in a breath of air he didn't need, and letting the feelers of magic latch onto him and twist him inwards.

.

He landed precisely in front of the god he really preferred to avoid whenever possible.

Unfortunately, that same god was rather invested in achieving the exact opposite results.

"Hello, Death. Still playing at being human?" a coldly amused and insufferably _beautiful_ face peered at him critically, slender hands clasped behind his draping robes, bowing half-way in a mocking parody of good will.

Gods were usually very aesthetically pleasing to the human perception, as humans had shaped gods with their worship and their belief and their oh-so-deliciously-hypocritical nature.

Death found it quite hypocritical, as well, of _this_ god to call him 'playing human' when he himself in all his vanity was wearing the guise of a human.

Life had always been hypocritical, though.

And it was, once again, up to Death to be the comforting, courteous once, offering rest after the harsh ministrations of Life's whims.

So as much as Death wanted to strangle this god before him with a tendril of the shadows invitingly waving behind him, he resisted.

Instead, he smiled.

Peacefully.

Nicely, even, knowing that this would tick him off the most, along with what he planned to say next.

"Yes. I find it a very refreshing role. What brings you to my domain, Tom Marvolo Riddle?" Harry Potter politely greeted Life, internally snickering at the pretentious middle name the god had slipped into what would've otherwise been a perfectly plain and reasonable name.

Riddle never _could_ persuade himself to be plain.

Upon hearing the name used, Life glared at Death reflexively, eyes the color of young trees and old earth slipping into eyes the color of bled blood and prickly roses.

The color of death.

Whereas Death, in response, merely tilted his head and gazed back with eyes the color of spring grass and renewed shoots.

The color of life.

.

 _(Off to the side, behind heavy-set desks, crafted from metaphysical wood and existing in at least 23 dimensions at any given time, three sisters huddled._

 _"They, like, **so** need to get over their UST and fuck already. Even The One Who Instigates Far Too Many Literary Debates agrees!" Tisiphone, who was self-proclaimed eldest, liked to be referred to as 'Tissy,' and could usually be identified by her ponytail and genuine interest in having a social life outside of work (as well as by her pervasive aura of extremely unprejudiced nosiness), complained with a polished pout._

 _Megaera, who was rather fixated solely on what concerned her economic prospects, demanded a tax on calling her by anything other than her full name, and could usually be identified by the actual bird feathers threaded into her already-feathery shoulder-length hair, glanced up from her phone and offered, "2 medium favors says Life realizes it after another decade, and Boss-man doesn't get it until another three centuries later.'_

 _Tissy gladly took that bet._

 _The short-haired, quiet, and one-who-did-most-of-the-actual-work-around-here Alecto just shook her head at her sisters' bet._

 _"Troublesome," she monotoned, glancing over to the silent stand-off between the two personifications.)_

* * *

 ** _#_**

 ** _#_**

 ** _Also known as that one AU where everyone is a god of something, Life may or may not know he has a major obsession over Death, Death may or may not know that his employees and basically everyone he knows thinks they should just kiss already, and The One Who Instigates Far Too Many Literary Debates may or may not know about her not-too-flattering nickname among the Deathworkers._**

 ** _Yes? No? Maybe-so?_**

 ** _Review: I'd be glad to hear what you think some of the characters should be gods of. I've already got Hermione, Bill, and Molly down..._**

 ** _Feel free to suggest characters who were dead pre-series as Death's employees, and what their roles should be._**

 ** _(Plus brownie points for suggesting scenarios where I can fit in a ' live spelled backwards is evil' reference.)_**

 ** _And what did you think of the Furies? Not furious enough?_**

 ** _#_**

 ** _#_**

 ** _-Review, please.-_**


	2. candid and confused

**Summary:**

 _If you're looking for 'pleasant', Death is always very pleasant and agreeable. It's Life who's the brutal one. [Death!Harry] [Life!Tom] [God!AU] [HPxTR] [Drabbles]_

 **Disclaimer:**

 _I don't own Harry Potter._

* * *

In a metaphysical concept somewhere and everywhere, mainly resided the consciousness of the anthropomorphic personification of Literature.

It bore a profoundly distinct resemblance to the idealized Library of Alexandria, although of course it didn't exist in every world/reality/universe and at times the anthropomorphic personification became rather worried about whether or not it existed as well...

Really, it was better to not think too hard about it.

"You're thinking too hard about it again," Honesty said candidly, firmly grounded by his solid if not always correct grasp of certain truths.

Honesty is subjective, and Honesty is also a concept that prefers to take the form of a rather tall male human with eyes like watered-down cerulean Crayola chalk, short curly hair lingering somewhere between garishly orange cartoon carrots and garishly cliche red flames, skin like someone took a piece of printer paper then freckled spots of paint over it, and dressed in a plain but high-quality maroon one-piece suit that probably wasn't made from materials you can get from a craft store.

Also, he identifies as male, at least currently, and gets tetchy if you don't call him by his selected human alias of 'Ronald Bilius Weasley', the middle name being something he freely admits to having picked by flipping through a random Book of Names with his eyes closed.

(He borrowed the Book of Names from Death, rather, the incarnation of Death he was most familiar with.)

Literature scowled at him.

"But there is so much written about concepts becoming reality, or at least 'real' for the given value of real, and so much of it contradicts each other, and by Ourselves, Ronald, do you never question all this?" 'she' demanded in exasperation, the dull brown curls of 'her' avatar twisting free of their prim librarian bun to writhe in wildly lashing corkscrews.

The female humanoid avatar shifted abruptly into a male humanoid avatar, hair strands shortening dramatically as height shot up, the bulky gray sweater-dress and leggings with silver-buckled flats accommodatingly melting into a fitted navy sweater-vest, over dark skinny jeans and silver-accented boots.

'His' attitude took an equally sudden about-face, as 'he' calmly stopped pacing agitatedly, and took a seat across from Honesty.

"It's all good and well to say we gods and goddesses exist because of belief. The problem is, who supplies the belief? Must it be humans? Cannot plants, beasts, elements, and other beings provide belief as well? I see you, and can touch you, and can hear you. I believe that you are here. Are you really here, though?"

Ron sighed.

He reached forward, over the library table.

He smacked Literature across the face.

.

Literature blinked, the library-esque surroundings wavered uncertainly, and then reality for the given value of reality asserted itself once more with feeling.

Slightly sheepish, Literature coughed in a female hand and adjusted 'her' nametag.

It contained symbol of the godly language, which worked, oddly enough, through transferring impressions directly into one's... well, whatever and _where_ -ever their thought processes were.

The symbol 'she' used read, approximately, the impression of literature, for the given value of 'impression' and 'literature.'

(When you're a god, quite a lot of things aren't really things and work on the given value of non-thing things.

Honesty advised that you ignore that as well.)

"Sorry," 'she' apologized, 'her' hair tying itself back up into a luxuriously flowing ponytail, golden hairclips with book motifs sliding into being, as 'popping' was for amateurs.

Literature has pride, _thankyouverymuch-ly._

"I'm always in at least two minds about everything, and something I lose track of... well, everything. There's so much literature and so much of it is-"

Here, 'she' performed a helpless, hapless kind of two-handed, complicated wiggling motion.

"-and it just gets so very confusing. Did I slip into Hartley again? No, don't tell me, of course I did, that was a Stupid question."

"Not 'stupid'?" Honesty raised a teasing eyebrow. "Oh, noes, Hermione Granger was Stupid, not merely 'stupid'?"

Hermione threw a bucket of acid over Ron with 'her' eyes alone, arching a far more imperious brow.

"Stop being Stupid, Ronald," 'she' scolded loftily.

They held out for an impressive twenty-eight seconds, twenty-five of which were spent in an impromptu staring contest, before Honesty sneezed and they both crumbled into gradual giggles, Ron's giggles considerably more giggly than Hermione's.

.

"Okay, okay, now that that's over, why are you here?" Literature asked, stopping 'her' laughter first.

"Molly sent me to make sure you don't get drunk off of thought fumes at another genius convention again and miss tonight's group dinner in her Realm," Honesty summed up snappily, shrugging.

Crinkling her nose at the overbearing but occasionally lovable Aspect of Motherhood, Literature considered the ramifications of not attending the dinner she'd foolishly agreed to ages (or was it days?) ago.

'Tonight' really didn't mean much to a godly being, but Molly Prewett was generally respected and obeyed, if only because she had a fearsomely wide net of connections and favors and was not afraid in the slightest of resorting to less savory tactics in getting her way.

And she made a mean lasagna, even if, again, a godly being didn't need food.

(There's a lot of things and non-thing things a godly being doesn't need.

Still nice to have them, though.)

"Right, fine," 'she' conceded. "We're leaving now, then. Her Realm sometimes gets persnickety at letting me in, but if I have you with me, I should be fine. Harry's going, of course?"

"Of course," Ron agreed, standing up to offer 'her' his arm. "I think Molly's up to something, actually. She looked rather smug about getting Harry to agree, even though he always attends, and she finagled an agreement out of that on-again-off-again boyfriend of yours."

"Who?"

"You know, the one you complained about a lot to me 'n Harry. I don't meet him much, Harry does?"

"Oh, Tom. Magnificent bastard with a brilliant mind. What's Molly thinking, though, inviting Life and Death to eat a civil meal with each other in the same room?"

Honesty shrugged, honestly.

"Who knows what mothers think."

Then they blinked out of the metaphysical library into a metaphysical grassy backyard of a metaphysical white-picket two-story red-brick house.

Smoke rose cheerfully out of the cutesy, picture-perfect chimney.

Hermione grimly clapped Ron on the back, and then strode towards the house, hoping it wouldn't be on fire and emitting considerably _more_ smoke by the end of dinner.

* * *

 ** _#_**

 ** _#_**

 ** _A conversation between Honesty and Literature._**

 ** _No, not 'about.'_**

 ** _#_**

 ** _#_**

 ** _-Review, please.-_**


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